“Am I right, Lady Grace, am I right? — to have come, I mean, after so many days of not hearing, not knowing, and perhaps, all too stupidly, not trying.” And he went on as, still with her eyes on him, she didn’t speak; though, only, we should have guessed, from her stress of emotion. “Even if I’m wrong, let me tell you, I don’t care — simply because, whatever new difficulty I may have brought about for you here a fortnight ago, there’s something that today adds to my doubt and my fear too great a pang3, and that has made me feel I can scarce bear the suspense4 of them as they are.”
The girl came nearer, and if her grave face expressed a pity it yet declined a dread5. “Of what suspense do you speak? Your still being without the other opinion —?”
“Ah, that worries me, yes; and all the more, at this hour, as I say, that —” He dropped it, however: “I’ll tell you in a moment! My real torment6, all the while, has been not to know, from day to day, what situation, what complication that last scene of ours with your father here has let you in for; and yet at the same time — having no sign nor sound from you! — to see the importance of not making anything possibly worse by approaching you again, however discreetly7. I’ve been in the dark,” he pursued, “and feeling that I must leave you there; so that now — just brutally8 turning up once more under personal need and at any cost — I don’t know whether I most want or most fear what I may learn from you.”
Lady Grace, listening and watching, appeared to choose between different ways of meeting this appeal; she had a pacifying9, postponing10 gesture, marked with a beautiful authority, a sign of the value for her of what she gave precedence to and which waved off everything else. “Have you had — first of all — any news yet of Bardi?”
“That I have is what has driven me straight at you again — since I’ve shown you before how I turn to you at a crisis. He has come as I hoped and like a regular good ’un,” Hugh was able to state; “I’ve just met him at the station, but I pick him up again, at his hotel in Clifford Street, at five. He stopped, on his way from Dover this morning, to my extreme exasperation11, to ‘sample’ Canterbury, and I leave him to a bath and a change and tea. Then swooping12 down I whirl him round to Bond Street, where his very first apprehension13 of the thing (an apprehension, oh I guarantee you, so quick and clean and fine and wise) will be the flash-light projected — well,” said the young man, to wind up handsomely, but briefly14 and reasonably, “over the whole field of our question.”
She panted with comprehension. “That of the two portraits being but the one sitter!”
“That of the two portraits being but the one sitter. With everything so to the good, more and more, that bangs in, up to the head, the golden nail of authenticity15, and”— he quite glowed through his gloom for it —“we take our stand in glory on the last Mantovano in the world.”
It was a presumption16 his friend visibly yearned17 for — but over which, too, with her eyes away from him, she still distinguished18 the shadow of a cloud. “That is if the flash-light comes!”
“That is if it comes indeed, confound it!”— he had to enlarge a little under the recall of past experience. “So now, at any rate, you see my tension!”
She looked at him again as with a vision too full for a waste of words. “While you on your side of course keep well in view Mr. Bender’s.”
“Yes, while I keep well in view Mr. Bender’s; though he doesn’t know, you see, of Bardi’s being at hand.”
“Still,” said the girl, always all lucid19 for the case, “if the ‘flash-light’ does presently break ——!”
“It will first take him in the eye?” Hugh had jumped to her idea, but he adopted it only to provide: “It might if he didn’t now wear goggles20, so to say! — clapped on him too hard by Pappendick’s so damnably perverse21 opinion.” With which, however, he quickly bethought himself. “Ah, of course, these wretched days, you haven’t known of Pappendick’s personal visit. After that wire from Verona I wired him back defiance22 —”
“And that brought him?” she cried.
“To do the honest thing, yes — I will say for him: to renew, for full assurance, his early memory of our picture.”
She hung upon it. “But only to stick then to what he had telegraphed?”
“To declare that for him, lackaday! our thing’s a pure Moretto — and to declare as much, moreover, with all the weight of his authority, to Bender himself, who of course made a point of seeing him.”
“So that Bender”— she followed and wondered —“is, as a consequence, wholly off?”
It made her friend’s humour play up in his acuteness. “Bender, Lady Grace, is, by the law of his being, never ‘wholly’ off — or on! — anything. He lives, like the moon, in mid-air, shedding his silver light on earth; never quite gone, yet never all there — save for inappreciable moments. He would be in eclipse as a peril23, I grant,” Hugh went on —“if the question had struck him as really closed. But luckily the blessed Press — which is a pure heavenly joy and now quite immense on it — keeps it open as wide as Piccadilly.”
“Which makes, however,” Lady Grace discriminated24, “for the danger of a grab.”
“Ah, but all the more for the shame of a surrender! Of course I admit that when it’s a question of a life spent, like his, in waiting, acquisitively, for the cat to jump, the only thing for one, at a given moment, as against that signal, is to be found one’s self by the animal in the line of its trajectory25. That’s exactly,” he laughed, “where we are!”
She cast about as intelligently to note the place. “Your great idea, you mean, has so worked — with the uproar26 truly as loud as it has seemed to come to us here?”
“All beyond my wildest hope,” Hugh returned; “since the sight of the picture, flocked to every day by thousands, so beautifully tells. That we must at any cost keep it, that the nation must, and hang on to it tight, is the cry that fills the air — to the tune27 of ten letters a day in the Papers, with every three days a gorgeous leader; to say nothing of more and more passionate28 talk all over the place, some of it awfully29 wild, but all of it wind in our sails.”
“I suppose it was that wind then that blew me round there to see the thing in its new light,” Lady Grace said. “But I couldn’t stay — for tears!”
“Ah,” Hugh insisted on his side for comfort, “we’ll crow loudest yet! And don’t meanwhile, just don’t, those splendid strange eyes of the fellow seem consciously to plead? The women, bless them, adore him, cling to him, and there’s talk of a ‘Ladies’ League of Protest’— all of which keeps up the pitch.”
“Poor Amy and I are a ladies’ league,” the girl joylessly joked —“as we now take in the ‘Journal’ regardless of expense.”
“Oh then you practically have it all — since,” Hugh, added after a brief hesitation30, “I suppose Lord Theign himself doesn’t languish31 uninformed.”
“At far-off Salsomaggiore — by the papers? No doubt indeed he isn’t spared even the worst,” said Lady Grace —“and no doubt too it’s a drag on his cure.”
Her companion seemed struck with her lack of assurance. “Then you don’t — if I may ask — hear from him?”
“I? Never a word.”
“He doesn’t write?” Hugh allowed himself to insist.
“He doesn’t write. And I don’t write either.”
“And Lady Sandgate?” Hugh once more ventured.
“Doesn’t she write?”
“Doesn’t she hear?” said the young man, treating the other form of the question as a shade evasive.
“I’ve asked her not to tell me,” his friend replied —“that is if he simply holds out.”
“So that as she doesn’t tell you”— Hugh was clear for the inference —“he of course does hold out.” To which he added almost accusingly while his eyes searched her: “But your case is really bad.”
She confessed to it after a moment, but as if vaguely32 enjoying it. “My case is really bad.”
He had a vividness of impatience33 and contrition34. 197
“And it’s I who — all too blunderingly! — have made it so?”
“I’ve made it so myself,” she said with a high head-shake, “and you, on the contrary —!” But here she checked her emphasis.
“Ah, I’ve so wanted, through our horrid35 silence, to help you!” And he pressed to get more at the truth. “You’ve so quite fatally displeased36 him?”
“To the last point — as I tell you. But it’s not to that I refer,” she explained; “it’s to the ground of complaint I’ve given you.” And then as this but left him blank, “It’s time — it was at once time — that you should know,” she pursued; “and yet if it’s hard for me to speak, as you see, it was impossible for me to write. But there it is.” She made her sad and beautiful effort. “The last thing before he left us I let the picture go.”
“You mean —?” But he could only wonder — till, however, it glimmered37 upon him. “You gave up your protest?”
“I gave up my protest. I told him that — so far as I’m concerned! — he might do as he liked.”
Her poor friend turned pale at the sharp little shock of it; but if his face thus showed the pang of too great a surprise he yet wreathed the convulsion in a gay grimace38. “You leave me to struggle alone?”
“I leave you to struggle alone.”
He took it in bewilderingly, but tried again, even to the heroic, for optimism. “Ah well, you decided39, I suppose, on some new personal ground.”
“Yes; a reason came up, a reason I hadn’t to that extent looked for and which of a sudden — quickly, before he went — I had somehow to deal with. So to give him my word in the dismal40 sense I mention was my only way to meet the strain.” She paused; Hugh waited for something further, and “I gave him my word I wouldn’t help you,” she wound up.
He turned it over. “To act in the matter — I see.”
“To act in the matter”— she went through with it —“after the high stand I had taken.”
Still he studied it. “I see — I see. It’s between you and your father.”
“It’s between him and me — yes. An engagement not again to trouble him.”
Hugh, from his face, might have feared a still greater complication; so he made, as he would probably have said, a jolly lot of this. “Ah, that was nice of you. And natural. That’s all right!”
“No”— she spoke41 from a deeper depth —“it’s altogether wrong. For whatever happens I must now accept it.”
“Well, say you must”— he really declined not to treat it almost as rather a “lark”—“if we can at least go on talking.”
“Ah, we can at least go on talking!” she perversely42 sighed. “I can say anything I like so long as I don’t say it to him” she almost wailed43. But she added with more firmness: “I can still hope — and I can still pray.”
He set free again with a joyous44 gesture all his confidence. “Well, what more could you do, anyhow? So isn’t that enough?”
It took her a moment to say, and even then she didn’t. “Is it enough for you, Mr. Crimble?”
“What is enough for me”— he could for his part readily name it —“is the harm done you at our last meeting by my irruption; so that if you got his consent to see me ——!”
“I didn’t get his consent!”— she had turned away from the searching eyes, but she faced them again to rectify45: “I see you against his express command.”
“Ah then thank God I came!”— it was like a bland46 breath on a feu de joie: he flamed so much higher.
“Thank God you’ve come, yes — for my deplorable exposure.” And to justify47 her name for it before he could protest, “I offered him here not to see you,” she rigorously explained.
“‘Offered him?”— Hugh did drop for it. “Not to see me — ever again?”
She didn’t falter48. “Never again.”
Ah then he understood. “But he wouldn’t let that serve ——?”
“Not for the price I put on it.”
“His yielding on the picture?”
“His yielding on the picture.”
Hugh lingered before it all. “Your proposal wasn’t ‘good enough’?”
“It wasn’t good enough.”
“I see,” he repeated —“I see.” But he was in that light again mystified. “Then why are you therefore not free?”
“Because — just after — you came back, and I did see you again!”
Ah, it was all present. “You found you were too sorry for me?”
“I found I was too sorry for you — as he himself found I was.”
Hugh had got hold of it now. “And that, you mean, he couldn’t stomach?”
“So little that when you had gone (and how you had to go you remember) he at once proposed, rather than that I should deceive you in a way so different from his own ——”
“To do all we want of him?”
“To do all I did at least.”
“And it was then,” he took in, “that you wouldn’t deal?”
“Well”— try though she might to keep the colour out, it all came straighter and straighter now —“those moments had brought you home to me as they had also brought him; making such a difference, I felt, for what he veered49 round to agree to.”
“The difference”— Hugh wanted it so adorably definite —“that you didn’t see your way to accepting ——?”
“No, not to accepting the condition he named.”
“Which was that he’d keep the picture for you if you’d treat me as too ‘low’——?”
“If I’d treat you,” said Lady Grace with her eyes on his fine young face, “as impossible.”
He kept her eyes — he clearly liked so to make her repeat it. “And not even for the sake of the picture —?” After he had given her time, however, her silence, with her beautiful look in it, seemed to admonish50 him not to force her for his pleasure; as if what she had already told him didn’t make him throb51 enough for the wonder of it. He had it, and let her see by his high flush how he made it his own — while, the next thing, as it was but part of her avowal52, the rest of that illumination called for a different intelligence. “Your father’s reprobation53 of me personally is on the ground that you’re all such great people?”
She spared him the invidious answer to this as, a moment before, his eagerness had spared her reserve; she flung over the “ground” that his question laid bare the light veil of an evasion54, “‘Great people,’ I’ve learned to see, mustn’t — to remain great — do what my father’s doing.”
“It’s indeed on the theory of their not so behaving,” Hugh returned, “that we see them — all the inferior rest of us — in the grand glamour55 of their greatness!”
If he had spoken to meet her admirable frankness half-way, that beauty in her almost brushed him aside to make at a single step the rest of the journey. “You won’t see them in it for long — if they don’t now, under such tests and with such opportunities, begin to take care.”
This had given him, at a stroke, he clearly felt, all freedom for the closer criticism. “Lord Theign perhaps recognises some such canny56 truth, but ‘takes care,’ with the least trouble to himself and the finest short cut — does it, if you’ll let me say so, rather on the cheap — by finding ‘the likes’ of me, as his daughter’s trusted friend, out of the question.”
“Well, you won’t mind that, will you?” Lady Grace asked, “if he finds his daughter herself, in any such relation to you, quite as much so.”
“Different enough, from position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded, “is the view that gets itself most comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!”
“Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of despoiling58 us all, all who are interested, without apparently59 the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.”
Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting — or as if from that moment forth60 he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity61 of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us — and to keep us — blessedly together?”
She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?”
“By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment62. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’— it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.”
“‘Only’?” she flushed —“when I’ve given the picture up?”
“Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?”
“Oh, if you’ve forgiven me —!” she sighed into his fond face.
“Why, since you gave the thing up for me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given me up ——!”
“For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed.
“Then why aren’t we all right?”
“Well, if you will ——!”
“Oh for ever and ever and ever!”— and with this ardent63 cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips.
The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!”— as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them — their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them — a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated64 doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the other, the speculative65 though gracious attention she for a few moments made them and their recent intimate relation the subject of; from all of which indeed Lady Grace sought and found cover in a prompt and responsible address to Hugh. “Mustn’t you go without more delay to Clifford Street?”
He came back to it all alert “At once!” He had recovered his hat and reached the other door, whence he gesticulated farewell to the elder lady. “Please pardon me”— and he disappeared.
Lady Sandgate hereupon stood for a little silently confronted with the girl. “Have you freedom of mind for the fact that your father’s suddenly at hand?”
“He has come back?”— Lady Grace was sharply struck.
“He arrives this afternoon and appears to go straight to Kitty — according to a wire that I find downstairs on coming back late from my luncheon66. He has returned with a rush — as,” said his correspondent in the elation57 of triumph, “I was sure he would!”
Her young friend was more at sea. “Brought back, you mean, by the outcry — even though he so hates it?”
But she was more and more all lucidity67 — save in so far as she was now almost all authority. “Ah, hating still more to seem afraid, he has come back to face the music!”
Lady Grace, turning away as in vague despair for the manner in which the music might affect him, yet wheeled about again, after thought, to a positive recognition and even to quite an inconsequent pride. “Yes — that’s dear old father!”
And what was Lady Sandgate moreover but mistress now of the subject? “At the point the row has reached he couldn’t stand it another day; so he has thrown up his cure and — lest we should oppose him! — not even announced his start.”
“Well,” her companion returned, “now that I’ve done it all I shall never oppose him again!”
Lady Sandgate appeared to show herself as still under the impression she might have received on entering. “He’ll only oppose you!”
“If he does,” said Lady Grace, “we’re at present two to bear it.”
“Heaven save us then”— the elder woman was quick, was even cordial, for the sense of this —“your good friend is clever!”
Lady Grace honoured the remark. “Mr. Crim-ble’s remarkably68 clever.”
“And you’ve arranged ——?”
“We haven’t arranged — but we’ve understood. So that, dear Amy, if you understand —!” Lady Grace paused, for Gotch had come in from the hall.
“His lordship has arrived?” his mistress immediately put to him.
“No, my lady, but Lord John has — to know if he’s expected here, and in that case, by your ladyship’s leave, to come up.”
Her ladyship turned to the girl. “May Lord John — as we do await your father — come up?”
“As suits you, please!”
“He may come up,” said Lady Sandgate to Gotch. “His lordship’s expected.” She had a pause till they were alone again, when she went on to her companion: “You asked me just now if I understood. Well — I do understand!”
Lady Grace, with Gotch’s withdrawal69, which left the door open, had reached the passage to the other room. “Then you’ll excuse me!”— she made her escape.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
inspection
|
|
| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
confirmation
|
|
| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
pang
|
|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
suspense
|
|
| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
torment
|
|
| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
discreetly
|
|
| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
brutally
|
|
| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
pacifying
|
|
| 使（某人）安静( pacify的现在分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
postponing
|
|
| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
exasperation
|
|
| n.愤慨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
swooping
|
|
| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
apprehension
|
|
| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
briefly
|
|
| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
authenticity
|
|
| n.真实性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
presumption
|
|
| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
yearned
|
|
| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
lucid
|
|
| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
goggles
|
|
| n.护目镜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
perverse
|
|
| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
defiance
|
|
| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
peril
|
|
| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
discriminated
|
|
| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
trajectory
|
|
| n.弹道，轨道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
uproar
|
|
| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
tune
|
|
| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
awfully
|
|
| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
hesitation
|
|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
languish
|
|
| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
impatience
|
|
| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
contrition
|
|
| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
displeased
|
|
| a.不快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
glimmered
|
|
| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
grimace
|
|
| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
perversely
|
|
| adv. 倔强地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
wailed
|
|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
joyous
|
|
| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
rectify
|
|
| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
bland
|
|
| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
justify
|
|
| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
falter
|
|
| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
veered
|
|
| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
admonish
|
|
| v.训戒；警告；劝告 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
throb
|
|
| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
avowal
|
|
| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
reprobation
|
|
| n.斥责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
evasion
|
|
| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
glamour
|
|
| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
canny
|
|
| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
elation
|
|
| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
despoiling
|
|
| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
59
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
perversity
|
|
| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
embarrassment
|
|
| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
ardent
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
agitated
|
|
| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
speculative
|
|
| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
luncheon
|
|
| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
lucidity
|
|
| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
remarkably
|
|
| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
withdrawal
|
|
| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |